A study in Survival
by Karm Starkiller
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and a few surprise characters brave the Martian invasion of London. Please read and review! ON HOLD UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE - SORRY
1. Prologue The Eve of the War

_Author's Note: I'm an avid Sherlockian who also enjoys science fiction, especially the works of Verne, Wells, Doyle, and Asimov. It occurred to me the other day to wonder what Holmes and Watson did during the Martian invasion of _The War of the Worlds_. This is the result. If it looks like I borrowed from someone else's story on this idea, I promise I didn't. In fact, I haven't read any other Doyle/H. G. Wells crossovers._

_**But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited?…Are we or they Lords of the World?…And how are all things made for man?**_

**_-Kepler (quoted in _The Anatomy of Melancholy)**

**A STUDY IN SURVIVAL**

**Prologue: The Eve of the War**

**May 13, 1901**

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

He lit his long cherrywood pipe and paged impatiently through the _Daily Telegraph_. The newspapers had been barren for some time, and today was not an exception. No summons came from Scotland Yard; the police were having either a fit of competence or a spell dry as the recent papers.

Holmes prepared to toss the _Telegraph_ aside with a snort when a notice caught his eye. Curious in spite of himself, he maintained his hold on the paper and scanned the few lines of print.

"'As many people are no doubt aware, the planet Mars is approaching opposition, the portion of its orbit that brings it closest to the earth. At approximately midnight last night, the noted astronomer Lovell of Java observed a singular outbreak of incandescence from the red planet. His spectroscopic analysis revealed it to be a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an enormous velocity towards Earth. Lovell compared it to flaming gasses rushing out of a gun,'" he read aloud.

"Holmes," said Dr. John Watson, "I thought you were indifferent toward astronomy." He shifted his position on the sofa and looked up from the Clark Russell novel in his hand.

"Under normal conditions," said Holmes, slapping the _Telegraph_ onto the table, "I have no interest in astronomical phenomenon whatsoever. The fact that I am reduced to pondering volcanic activity on Mars, for no doubt that is the cause of these flaming gasses, further strengthens my inclination to retire from detection and take up some less demanding line of work."

"Really, Holmes, there is no need for such sarcasm," remonstrated Watson. "You mustn't—" he paused, eyebrows drawn down in thought. "Are there volcanoes on Mars?"

"It makes not a pennyworth of difference to me whether there are volcanoes or glaciers," snapped Holmes, throwing himself into an armchair. _Watson may have a point, though,_ he admitted to himself. _If volcanic activity is unknown on Mars, what could cause an 'outbreak of incandescence'? Perhaps this Lovell was more nearly right than he thought in likening it to 'flaming gasses rushing out of a gun'. If so, I find it unpleasant to consider what Martians might fire off at the earth._

_AN: I don't own any characters you recognize, I do own any new characters I invented. Disclaimer, disclaimer, blah blah blah. Yes, other chapters will be longer. Please review!_


	2. Chapter 1 In London

_AN: Very few exact dates are given in _The War of the Worlds_, so I made up whatever sounded reasonable and fit the guidelines in the book – descriptions of the weather, sunrise and sunset times, etc. If dates don't match up exactly, I'm only following Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's example and being masterful with the facts. _:)

**A STUDY IN SURVIVAL**

**Chapter 1: In London**

**July 23, 1901** Friday

The newsboy's cry stopped Dr. Watson in his tracks. Pausing his walk back to the Baker Street flat, he hurriedly bought an evening paper from the shrill-voiced lad announcing headlines.

"Holmes!" he cried, climbing the stairs fast as his bad leg would allow. "Holmes, have you seen the papers tonight?"

Holmes turned from his test tubes to see Watson burst into the sitting room. "What news item has so invigorated you, Watson, as to bring about a sudden burst of energy and interrupt my work on this blood sample?"

"Haven't you seen this, Holmes?" Watson shoved the rustling sheets into his friend's hands.

Large black letters stared Holmes in the face.

A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS Remarkable Story From Woking

"Ah, I see, Watson. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Are you expecting the Martians to drop in for tea? If so, I should direct my activities to preparing Mrs. Hudson for their arrival, rather than giving my blood the opportunity to clot." Holmes handed the newspaper back to a dumbfounded Watson and calmly returned to his work.

"Holmes, aren't you interested in the slightest?" protested Watson.

"I would be, if I had not sent for the early editions while you were out," replied Holmes, waving a hand at a new stack of papers in the corner. "It's just as well you bought your own copy, Watson. This may be an event to keep record of."

Slightly disgruntled, Dr. Watson settled in the basket chair to study the front-page article. It stated that early in the morning, a falling star was seen rushing over Winchester eastward, leaving a greenish streak behind it that glowed for some seconds. Mr. William Denning, a recognized authority on meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was some ninety or one hundred miles above the Earth's surface. An Ottershaw astronomer named Ogilvy, who had observed its descent, found the meteorite on the common between Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking.

To Ogilvy's surprise, the meteorite was not natural at all, but a manufactured, hollow cylinder of an unknown metal. One end of the cylinder began unscrewing very slowly. Ogilvy returned to the village and informed Henderson, a London journalist, of the find. Henderson, upon seeing the cylinder for himself, telegraphed the news to London.

Many people speculated on the objects that may be discovered inside. The cylinder was not believed to contain any living creatures or men, due to the intense heat to which it was subjected on its entry into the earth's atmosphere. It was possible, however, that models or manuscripts were to be found once the cylinder opened completely.

"What do you make of it, Watson?"

Watson looked up in mild surprise. Holmes still sat bent over the deal-topped table, but a small mirror was placed so that Watson could easily be watched.

"I don't know what to make of it, Holmes. It really does seem that the intense heat would have killed anything alive. It is a pity. We might have learned a good deal from the Martians, since they are advanced enough to send missiles through the vast spaces between our planet and theirs."

"We shall see, my dear fellow, we shall see. Perhaps manuscripts, if the contents prove to be such, will have an equally beneficial change in store for mankind. Oh, blast."

"Holmes, what have you done?" coughed Watson. "I had hoped experiments with blood would not produce fumes suitable for use as a – a weapon!"

"Help me open the windows like a good fellow. That's better. It would seem," Holmes explained with a slightly guilty air, "I inadvertently neglected to change the labeling on a bottle refilled with a substance differing from the original contents. A brief lapse of memory caused me to believe the labeling was correct when in truth, it was faulty."

"Oh, Holmes," sighed Watson.

July 24, 1901 Saturday

The newspapermen filled their morning editions with lengthy special articles on the planet Mars, life in the planets, and such things, as well as a brief and vaguely worded report of an attack made by the Martians late Friday afternoon. Alarmed by the approach of a crowd, the story went, the Martians had killed a number of people with a quick-firing gun. "Formidable as they seem to be, the Martians have not moved from the pit into which their cylinder has fallen, and, indeed, seem incapable of doing so. Probably this is due to the relative strength of earth's gravitational energy," it concluded.

Sherlock Holmes spent the day in his dressing gown, smoking on and off and demanding the newest papers as soon as they were available, but he was disappointed at how little they contained. Despite big headlines, they had nothing to tell beyond the mobilization of artillery and troops to Horsell Common and the burning of the pine forests between Woking and Weybridge.

At eight o'clock Saturday night, the _St. James Gazette_ released and extra-special edition announcing the interruption of telegraphic communication from the area, thought to be the result of burning pine trees falling across the lines.

There was a strong thunderstorm that night, but it did not bother Holmes. He was awake anyway.

**July 25, 1901**

**Sunday morning**

"About seven o'clock last night the Martians came out of the cylinder, and, moving about under an armour of metallic shields, have completely wrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and massacred an entire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment. No details are known. Maxims have been absolutely useless against their armour; the field guns have been disabled by them. Flying hussars have been galloping into Chertsey. The Martians appear to be moving slowly towards Chertsey or Windsor. Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey, and earthworks are being thrown up to check the advance Londonward."

Sherlock Holmes put the Sunday _Sun_ on top of a growing stack of equally vague articles about the Martians' attack on Woking.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson said brightly, coming into the sitting room. "I trust you have already breakfasted," he added, sounding doubtful as he noticed the state of the floor around Holmes's chair.

"Hmmm? Go ahead and eat, Watson. Don't wait for me."

"Holmes," said Watson sternly, "You know you must eat. To judge by the number of tobacco ends scattered about, you've been up all night."

"I suppose so," Holmes replied listlessly, moving to the breakfast table. "Watson, it would ease my mind considerably if you left London just for the present."

"What?"

"Take Mrs. Hudson with you. I want you both to go to the north – Yorkshire, perhaps."

"Yorkshire? Holmes, what is this all about?"

"The Continent would be better, but go nearly anywhere, so long as you are far from London."

Watson set down his fork. "Holmes, I am not taking Mrs. Hudson anywhere unless you explain why."

Holmes pushed his plate away after taking only a few bites. "The Martians are advancing on London. I want you and our good landlady out of harm's way before the flood of evacuation begins."

"Martians?" chuckled Dr. Watson. "The last I heard, they could hardly move about in their pit, something to do with our earth's greater gravitational attraction. What is to fear from them?"

"They left their pit last night, Watson, wreaked havoc in Woking, wiped out a battalion of soldiers, and are traveling in the direction of London. I am certain it is but a matter of time before the six millions of people who make this city their home realize the danger and form a panicked mob. It would be senseless to wait before finding a safer locality to call home."

"Do you plan to leave?"

"No," Holmes said quietly.

"Good heavens, Holmes, if the danger is so pressing, why are you waiting for panicked, fleeing mobs and Martian invaders?"

"I must confess to a rather morbid curiosity about imminent events."

"Holmes, I will not allow you to place yourself in harm's way because of curiosity!" insisted Watson. "If I must leave today, so must you."

"I am not leaving," Holmes said in a tone that left no questions. He stood abruptly and went to the window, standing with his back to the room.

"Then I am staying. Don't try to argue me out of it, Holmes, I can be every bit as stubborn as you."

Holmes's lips twitched into a brief smile. "I am aware of that," he said dryly, and turned away from the window, letting the curtains drop back into place. "I thought you would want to stay. Mrs. Hudson must leave at once, though, before the trains stop running."

"She can't travel to the Continent on her own," objected Dr. Watson.

The entrance of the landlady in question stopped Holmes's response. She shook her head at his nearly untouched plate.

"Mr. Holmes, it's a wonder to me how you manage to survive. If you don't eat more, you'll be blowing away with the next good wind coming through town."

"My dear Mrs. Hudson, I need you to do something for me," Holmes said smoothly.

"If it has anything to do with your last 'project', I will not," Mrs. Hudson warned.

"No, no, no, Mrs. Hudson, this has nothing at all to do with frog larvae," Holmes assured her. "I merely wish you and Billy to leave London for a week or two."

"Leave London? Mr. Holmes, if you expect me to drop everything and gallivant around England, I simply won't. How would you and Dr. Watson manage—"

"My dear Mrs. Hudson, allow me to explain." In a few words, Holmes summed up the situation.

"What will you and the doctor do?" asked Mrs. Hudson, concerned.

"Have no fear, Mrs. Hudson. We shall take every precaution, won't we, Holmes?" nudged Watson.

"Oh yes, of course. As I was saying, perhaps your sister in Norfolk will accommodate you. Billy would certainly enjoy a visit to his aunt. I can make arrangements for you to leave in a few hours."

"So soon?"

"It is necessary, Mrs. Hudson."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. I'll be packing soon as breakfast is cleaned up."

When Mrs. Hudson left, taking with her a tray of used dishes, Dr. Watson turned to Holmes.

"What happened to the Continent?" he asked, quiet amusement smiling in his eyes.

"Persuading our good landlady to visit her sister in Norfolk is one matter. Convincing her it is necessary to leave England is altogether different." Holmes shook off the grey-brown dressing gown he wore and reached for his coat and hat. "I have several matters to arrange and may be gone some time. Keep an eye on the papers as they come in and summarize for me when I return. If you have the time, Watson, nip downstairs and take stock of food and water supplies. Make sure Billy goes off with his mother. I want them both out of London before five o'clock."

_AN: The Canon doesn't say much about Billy or Mrs. Hudson, so I decided to make the best-loved landlady of all time the mother of the "young but very wise and tactful page" ("The Mazarin Stone"). I also invented a sister in Norfolk for the good woman. *Shrug* I like little speculations of this sort in pastiches. In addition, as you can see, Watson's old war wound is in his leg for this story._

_Newspaper articles in this story are generally copied or paraphrased from _The War of the Worlds.

_Please review!_


	3. Chapter 2 Calm Before the Storm

_AN: We meet a surprise character in this chapter. See if you can figure out who it is before the name is mentioned._ :) _Mycroft also makes a brief appearance._

**A STUDY IN SURVIVAL**

**Chapter 2: Calm Before the Storm**

July 25, 1901 Sunday afternoon

After leaving Baker Street, he dispatched several telegrams – one to Mycroft, asking for arrangement of Mrs. Hudson and Billy's transportation to Norfolk and a meeting at the Diogenes Club; others went to Holmes's agents in various parts of Town, warning them to leave if possible. Then, as an afterthought, he'd sent a brief message to a scientific acquaintance who might, he thought, be interested in observing the Martians at close quarters.

The remainder of the day he prowled about London, gathering all the information he could about events near Woking. More soldiers and heavy artillery were sent in, telegraph communication was silent, and some trains were stopped. Refugees arrived in southwest London in steady streams, bearing tales of "boilers on stilts, one hundred feet high" carrying weapons that set houses, forests, and people afire from a distance. The scraps of news they brought sparked a stirring of unrest in the great city. Traffic increased steadily in the main roads.

**July 25, 1901**

**Sunday evening**

Church bells rang for evensong. The sun was just setting, the Clock Tower and the Houses of Parliament rising against a gold sky barred with stripes of reddish-purple cloud.

Newspaper-seller spread in ripples from Fleet Street, waving freshly printed papers and bawling such headlines as "Dreadful catastrophe!" "Fighting at Weybridge! Full description!" "London in danger!" Sherlock Holmes bought a paper from the nearest vendor and read of the battle with the Martians.

Despite popular opinion, the Martians were not small sluggish creatures, but minds swaying vast mechanical bodies; they could move swiftly and smite with such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand against them.

They were described as "vast spider-like machines, nearly a hundred feet high, capable of the speed of an express train, and able to shoot out a beam of intense heat." Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had been planted in the country about Horsell Common, and especially between the Woking district and London. Five of the machines had been seen moving toward the Thames, and one, by a happy chance, had been destroyed.

In the other cases, the shells had missed, and the batteries had been at once annihilated by the Heat-Rays. The Martians retreated to the area around the cylinders. Signalers with heliographs pushed forward upon them from all sides. Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth, Aldershot, Woolwich – even from the north. Altogether, one hundred and sixteen were in position or being hastily placed, chiefly covering London.

More cylinders had followed the first, one falling to earth every night. It was hoped that further arrivals could be destroyed with powerful explosives, which were now being manufactured and distributed.

Authorities estimated, from the size of the cylinders, that each one could hold, at the outside, five Martians – fifteen altogether from the three missiles that had landed so far. One of them, at least, was disposed of – perhaps more.

A warning to stay calm, despite the imminent threat, and assurance that proper steps would be taken if mass evacuation of London became necessary, followed this information.

Heavy losses of soldiers were mentioned, but the tone of the dispatch was optimistic. The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable.

Holmes took a cab to the Diogenes Club, where he met with his older brother in the Stranger's Room.

The door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges to allow Mycroft Holmes's entrance. "Good to see you, Sherlock. How much have you heard about these Martians?" he asked, settling his massive form into a chair facing his brother. "They kept me extraordinarily busy today. I haven't had so many panicked military commanders to handle in months."

"I know nothing save what the papers and refugees say," Sherlock replied, "and their news is disturbing enough. I apologize for disturbing you today with a trivial request, but I wanted my landlady and her son safe. London will be reduced to a state of 'every man for himself' in under twenty-four hours."

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "What about your doctor friend, Watson?"

"I put forward the idea of evacuation, but he refused with a tenacity that does him credit. An old soldier like Watson is just the sort who will be useful in coming days, despite his stiff leg."

"What exactly did you have planned, Sherlock?"

Holmes leaned slightly forward. "A small band of men whom I know can be trusted to keep their head in a crisis. The purpose is not only to survive, but also to be prepared for the unpleasant prospect that the Martians may rule the earth."

"I find that idea uncommonly repulsive," commented Mycroft.

"As do I, but it must be considered. Should such a distasteful event occur, I would consider it my duty to minimize the loss of knowledge that inevitably follows a conquest. By the by, this telegram was waiting for me when I arrived. What do you think of adding the sender to my merry men?" Holmes handed over the slip of paper.

Mycroft read the missive and raised an eyebrow. "The man is a genius, but I have my doubts about associating with high explosives in these fiery times. You are aware of his reputation, are you not?"

"Yes, Mycroft. I have had the pleasure to speak with him on occasion," Holmes said dryly, folding the telegram and slipping it into his coat pocket.

"Since you are willing to take the risk and humour the fellow's idiosyncrasies, I see no problem. He does have a mind of the first order. An ideal candidate to preserve science, zoology in particular."

"Good. Now if I may enquire into your plans for the immediate future…" Holmes allowed his voice to trail off.

"Scampering about and hiding from extra-terrestrial invaders holds little appeal for me. I have matters in some semblance of order at the office and leave London on a late train. And you, Sherlock?"

"I shall remain here," Holmes replied quietly. "Don't attempt to persuade me otherwise, Mycroft. London is home turf, so to speak. I know nearly every inch of this city. Once the greater part of the population is gone, and looters settle down, I think I would be better off in Town. I have my revolver and a supply of ammunition, as does Watson. The three of us – Watson, my fierce acquaintance, and I – should be able to hold our ground." He stood and extended a long, thin hand. "I must be getting back to Baker Street. Take care, Mycroft."

"See that you don't do anything foolish, Sherlock."

The brothers shook hands and parted ways.

July 25, 1901 Sunday night

Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street in a roundabout way, avoiding large roadways with their heavy, and still increasing, traffic. One or two cartloads of refugees passed along Oxford Street, and several through Marylebone Road, but Regent Street was full of the usual Sunday night promenaders. Along the edge of Regent's Park as many couples as usual strolled under the scattered gas-lamps. The night was warm and still. Occasionally, the firing of heavy guns could be heard to the south.

Holmes climbed the stairs, stepped into the sitting room, and froze. Crates were piled everywhere. A few lay with the tops pried open, packing straw littering the floor. "It is fortunate that the landlady is out, or she would have my head on a platter," he announced to the room.

"It is indeed fortunate, if she is so ferocious a specimen as to threaten bodily harm in response to a little clutter," rumbled a deep voice behind him.

Holmes spun on his heel, startled, to look at the speaker.

He was surprisingly short, but more than made up for his lack of height in breadth and depth. A barrel-like chest, huge spread of shoulders, enormous head, and rippling black beard captured the eye when one took a glance in his direction. A person more physically different from Holmes was hard to imagine.

"Professor Challenger, I perceive. And these crates would be yours?"

"They are."

"Scientific equipment, no doubt."

"Your intrusive telegram requested it."

"I apologize for the intrusion, Professor, but recent events forced my hand. It is my intention, you see, to take measures for the preservation of scientific knowledge should the Martian conquest of England prove successful."

"Do you consider such a conquest probable?"

"Unless some unforeseen or unaccounted-for factor comes into play, I consider it to be nearly inevitable." Holmes traded his coat for the mouse-coloured dressing gown and removed a few straws before settling into his velvet-lined armchair. "After all, Professor, the Martians have superior weapons. They have destroyed several batteries of artillery; we have killed one of them. They have reinforcements arriving with every cylinder that falls. I do not see how we can hold against these creatures."

"You are correct, Mr. Holmes, as far as you go," rumbled Challenger. "I shall elaborate a bit on your conclusions in due time. At present they will serve. There is," he continued, glaring suspiciously, "one question I will put to you. Your telegram explained very little. Why did you desire for _me_ to burrow in with you?"

"I have already mentioned, Professor, my wish to prevent the loss of man's scientific knowledge. With my private inquiries into chemistry, my friend Dr. Watson's medical abilities, and your acknowledged supremacy in zoology, I feel a good start has been made."

"Acknowledged supremacy?" repeated Challenger. "It appears that a prophet is truly without honour in his own land, and a scientist persecuted in his own branch of study." He laughed heartily at his joke, head thrown back and eyes half-shut. "It is a sign," he added, after settling down, "of some tendencies toward intelligence on your part when you accurately judge another man's mental powers. Whether you can do the same for yourself is yet to be seen."

Holmes sat up rigidly. "I do not indulge in flattery or false modesty, nor do I entertain an inflated view of my own powers. Kindly keep that in mind, my good Professor."

Challenger took a step toward Holmes and prepared to blast out an angry retort, but the opening of the sitting room door interrupted him.

"Holmes, I have the list—Good heavens!" Dr. Watson stared in shock first at the mess added to the normal clutter, then at Professor Challenger. "Holmes, who is this?"

Holmes opened his mouth to answer, but Challenger spoke first.

"I am Professor George Edward Challenger," he announced, eyes half-closed and luxuriant black beard thrust forward.

"A pleasure to meet you, Professor. As I was saying, Holmes, I have the inventory of food you asked for." The doctor handed over several sheets torn from a notebook.

"Ah, thank you, Watson." Holmes began scanning the pages, ignoring the increasingly indignant professor.

"Is it possible, sir, that you have never heard of G. E. C.?" Challenger demanded.

Watson looked pensive for a moment before answering. "I'm afraid not, Professor. Should I have?"

Professor Challenger said nothing, but stroked his spade-shaped beard and swelled with indignation.

"My dear fellow," cut in Holmes, "the good professor is here at my invitation. It was my intention to ride out the coming storm with him, on account of his superior knowledge and intelligence. Professor Challenger, this is my friend and associate Dr. John Watson."

"It is comforting to see that one of our little band can recognize a superior brain when he meets it. Perhaps I underestimated our chances of success after all," Challenger said with labored sarcasm.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Watson.

"Please, Watson, Professor, we may be spending a not inconsiderable amount of time in close quarters," cut in Holmes. "It would be wise to tolerate each other's behavior and control one's own actions.

"I expect," he continued, "the exodus from London to begin tonight or tomorrow. Once it starts, we must be constantly on our guard. I suggest an early surrender into the arms of Morpheus, as there is a strong possibility our rest will be interrupted."

_AN: Holmes and Watson are my favourite Doyle team, but Challenger and Co. make a close second. I couldn't resist tossing G. E. C. into the works._

"_Surrender into the arms of Morpheus" – a phrase from Nicholas Meyer's_ The Seven-per-cent Solution.


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